Leader of the pack: royal reporter James Whitaker dies

A part of the Windsor circus for decades and a bon viveur who thrived in Fleet Street's heyday, Whitaker's story-telling in and out of the Mirror made him the alternative court of St James

Princess Diana talking to James Whitaker (in the green T-shirt) off St Tropez in 1997. Diana and her children knew Whitaker as the 'big fat red tomato'. Photograph: Rex Features Rex Features/Rex Features

An old joke sprang to mind whenever I caught a glimpse on TV of the Daily Mirror's former royal editor standing outside Buckingham Palace. I'm not certain who Prince Charles is but that's certainly James Whitaker.

Throughout the 1980s and 90s, he was as much part of the royal circus as the family itself. He was an ex-officio member of the House of Windsor, the man the public wanted to see and to read.

At royal events, and especially on royal tours, it was common to see him with his back to the action beaming at TV cameras and nodding to note-taking reporters while holding impromptu press conferences. It was, as one wag said, the alternative court of St James.

It was during one such occasion in Australia that a journalist overheard him holding forth in his loud public-school voice and memorably wrote that he sounded as if he was a retired brigadier addressing two deaf daughters. James was so enamoured with that description he happily re-told it for years afterwards.

As many of his colleagues pointed out in a string of tributes following his deathtoday at the age of 71, James could appear to be altogether more grand than most of the royals he reported on.

That looked to some outsiders like pomposity. But it was leavened with a self-deprecating sense of humour. There was always a twinkle in the eye of a man who smiled a great deal, not least because he had a great deal to smile about.

He travelled the world for the Mirror as he followed the progress of the woman he first met as Lady Diana Spencer to her role of Princess of Wales and finally in the dramatic years after her divorce.

She liked James and teased him despite him being responsible for many stories she would rather not have seen published. Then again, the way James told it, she was more than ready to leak titbits of information when it suited her.

It was her, or one of her sons, who nicknamed him the "big fat red tomato", a soubriquet that he happily adopted without a shadow of irritation. It was part of the fun.

Diana recognised in James what his colleagues and his rivals recognised: he was utterly straightforward, honest and candid. He was a pleasure to work with because, behind the booming voice and public-school hauteur, was a man dedicated to hard work. He sweated over his task.

He relished scoops, and in the nature of royal reporting, the tiniest fact – or alleged fact – was good enough to secure a headline. At that, he was truly a master of his trade.

The stories he reported were often much less interesting than the stories about him. He was renowned for seeking out the best restaurants where he feasted on the finest food and wine. He skied in the top resorts while staying in the most expensive hotels. He bought a racehorse and he gambled. He drove luxury cars.

He once contemplated buying a Mercedes 300SL, the same model once driven by Princess Diana. A fellow reporter commented: "It's typical of Whitaker that he now wants to buy a car that the Princess of Wales can no longer afford."

So he lived the high life. And in an era when journalistic expense accounts were still rather generous, James's were eye-poppingly high. And he earned a huge salary too at the height of his reporting fame.

No editor really complained because he was a journalist who could be relied on to provide the goods. James was aware of his value, but it didn't choke off his enthusiasm. He just loved getting stories – and loved to talk about them afterwards.

It was a tribute to his bluff character that he managed to be liked by most members of the royal family despite being part of the pack that dogged them wherever they went. He also remained a staunch monarchist.

Indeed, he disliked the idea of being a member of any pack. He was generous to his colleagues but he stood out from them. He was the doyen, the correspondent sought out by others. As one TV presenter put it: "James always gives good interview."

He seemed to have a knack of making it sound as if he lived in palaces rather than observing them through his trademark binoculars. It was part of the act, of course, and he carried it off with aplomb.

And always, always, there was the sound of laughter to accompany That Voice. He laughed at other people's stories but he laughed most at his own. Which is just as it should have been, because his were the best.

Dinner with James – whether in a restaurant or at his home with his delightful Polish-born wife, Iwona – was one of life's greatest pleasures. The cliche about him being larger than life is justified. Old Fleet Street, the world of popular newspapers, has lost one of its great troopers.